


A blessing lost or mislaid

by PhryneFicathon, TeaandBanjo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-13 12:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16892784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaandBanjo/pseuds/TeaandBanjo
Summary: All the men in Rosie’s life have failed her, and mired her in one scandal after another.  Who will she call to help her with another scandal?  Miss Phryne Fisher, of course!





	1. Rosie Shops

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OracleofDoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OracleofDoom/gifts).



> Dear unknown prompter, this is an amazing prompt for a little bit of a casefic. What sort of mystery would Rosie want to solve, that she couldn’t or wouldn’t take to Jack? I had a lot of ideas, but this is the one that **needed** to be written. 
> 
> Thank you! I hope you enjoy the story.

Rosie sat in the parlor. The tea was cooling in the pot, and Mrs. Blunt was busy somewhere in the back of the house. The song she was singing came through the hallway in small bursts of a silly tune.

“Is there a reason to leave the house today?” Rosie asked herself, looking down at her dressing gown. Was this the second, or the third day that she had spent pacing her father’s front room?

“I need something to look forward to.” The newspaper was open to an article about the beginnings of the Fletcher trial. One could certainly look forward to Sidney Fletcher’s sentencing, but that was completely out of her hands. Hanging? Hard labor? Rosie didn’t know, and her brain seemed to want to shy away from the subject. She couldn’t think clearly about it, she would weep with rage. Rage at her father? Sidney? Herself? She couldn’t say.

Rosie flipped the page over. Footy scores. _No, that’s not really distracting._ She didn’t have any Abbotsford men left, and her father, if he was paying any attention, was barracking for West Melbourne from jail. Did Rosie actually care enough to have a team? Like so many things now, she was uncertain.

The next page was “Ladies’ Page”, which contained three different home remedies for a troublesome cough, recipes for fancy gelatin desserts if you had a refrigerator, and the needlework section, which was almost entirely taken up by a ladies’ short-sleeved jumper with a design of stylized leaves and flowers. She tried to remember the last time she had knit anything that wasn’t for one of Sophie’s children. Her niece and nephews were so hard on socks, and Aunt Rosie somehow was always mending for them. 

Rose had a sudden desire for that lacy jumper in pale blue. She had the time to make one. All she would need to do was get dressed, take the tram to the shop, and buy “8 ounces of best three-ply wool” and some number 14 steel needles. _There is nothing to it._

So, there she was, in the middle of the morning, wearing her second-best coat from two years ago, and Mrs. Blunt’s hat. Rosie wondered if that would be different enough to avoid the notice of her sometimes friends, and the attentions of newspaper photographers. Out here, in the sunlight, she felt exposed.

The tram stopped at the train station. Rosie got off, she was only two blocks away from her favorite shop. 

The sound of a train whistle was a cue to one of those old, locked memories. She remembered her first long trip out of town. She had worn an uncomfortable coat for the ride, and her mother’s angry gaze scolded her every time Rosie was tempted to undo a button or two. She had carried a tiny suitcase from the taxi, and her mother had watched her unpack it in the small upstairs bedroom of the farmhouse. The view from the window had been grass and hills.

The bell on the door clanged as she entered the shop, and she shook herself to clear her mind. The shelves on the back wall of the shop were full of wool. Smooth, heavy worsted, in manly shades of navy and taupe were kept far away from fluffy balls of mohair and angora in white, and cream, and pale blue.

At the front of the shop, bolts of fabric filled the shop window. The shop owner and a customer were debating the virtues of various weights of lawn and muslin for baby clothing.

_I have never knit anything for a child of my own_. Rosie remembered tiny cardigans she made for each one of Sophie’s pregnancies. All of those things were gone, but she was still knitting for her neice, and the three ‘little’ nephews.


	2. Phryne takes a new case

Phryne Fisher sat in the velvet-upholstered comfort of the Sanderson’s front parlor. Pale gold drapes shaded the shapes of the furniture from the sun outside. Green vines climbed the wallpaper, as if they grew up from the white-painted wainscotting.

“Miss Fisher, would you be comfortable investigating on my behalf?” asked Rosie. 

“Call me Phryne. Please. We have too much history to be so formal.”

“I would need to ask you to keep this completely away from Jack.” She shifted uncomfortably on the stiff chair.

“We can count on his discretion, Rosie, you know that.” 

“Still, he can’t know. Phryne, I will find someone else if I have to.”

“I am extremely discreet. I promise your former husband won’t be involved.” _I suppose if Jack could help her she would have asked him already._

Rosie closed her eyes, and finished drinking her tea. She set down the cup by touch. Phryne schooled herself to stillness.

Rosie shook herself, then straightened in the chair, as if she were testifying in court.

“In the early summer of 1913, my parents sent me to stay with my father’s elderly aunt in Geelong. Melbourne society was given to understand that I was recovering from pneumonia, however, the illness was a fabrication of my mother’s.” 

Phryne nodded. 1913 would have been before Rosie’s marriage. This was a story she hadn’t heard.

“In August, I had the baby. It was immediately whisked out of the room, and the next day my Aunt explained that it was a girl, and I didn’t deserve her, and she would be adopted by a family who could take care of her and bring her up properly. I didn’t get any say in the matter.” Her voice had tapered away to a whisper.

Phryne could hardly breathe. On one hand, a baby was supposed to be the most important thing a woman did in her life. On the other, a baby could be taken away by disapproving family, by illness, by violence, or by war, all out of a woman’s control. A child out of wedlock was a social scandal for the woman, but wasn’t it still her child? “Rosie. I’m so sorry.” 

“So, I wasn’t pregnant anymore, and three weeks later I was on the train back home. The doctor assured me I was quite recovered, and if I was feeling low, that was to be expected for a girl who had disappointed her parents in that way.”

“This was not kind. I’m not surprised, but it was not kind.” 

“Now, seventeen years later, I feel like I’ve failed everything.” Rosie leaned forward and brought her elbows to her knees. “I’m supposed to be married, supposed to be this, supposed to be that. There is so much pity for a woman who isn’t a mother, but I don’t deserve that pity.”

“What sort of investigation are you proposing?”

“Phryne, I want to find out what happened to my little girl. If she’s happy, I’ll feel like that was one right thing. Everything else has been so spectacularly wrong.” 

“Are you sure you want to know?” she asked softly. “That was a long time ago. An informal, private adoption might be difficult or impossible to trace.”

“I need to know.” 

“I’ll do my best. There may be a paper trail, and there may be other avenues to pursue.”

“Jack can’t know. That’s important.”

“Jack will never find out. I promise. …. Rosie, the reason your family did this thing was to protect you from scandal. If there isn’t a paper trail, I will need to talk to people, try to remind them of something that happened in 1913. They will remember you, and it could bring that scandal to you now.”

“I’ll risk it. What’s a little more scandal?” 

“Itl might not be just you. It could affect the girl as well.” _If the girl was in society, gossip columnists would have material for weeks. Months._

Rosie crumpled back into her chair.

“Have you asked your father? I’m sure he would still remember.” Phryne patted her hand.

The woman looked back at her, eyes huge with remembered terror. “I already did. I went to visit him, in prison. He wouldn’t tell me a thing, just told me how he’d done everything for me, and I was ungrateful.”

Phryne offered her a handkerchief. “No, of course it wouldn’t be that simple. Do you need a drink?”

“No. I’ll be done in a minute.” Rosie wept into the handkerchief.

“Should I come back tomorrow to get started?” Phryne rummaged in her bag for a notebook and her little silver fountain pen. “Or can I get some basic information now?”

The woman sniffled and looked up. “What do you need to know?”

“I want to get a list of your parent’s relatives who were alive then. Your father may have involved family members other than his aunt in the planning, and sometimes babies like yours end up with a blood relative -- it would be someone that you wouldn’t be expected to know or visit regularly.”

“You need to interview my family?” 

“No, just the names and addresses. I’ll use them for the starting point of my research -- births, marriages and deaths are a matter of public record.”

Rosie frowned. “I’ll go get you my mother’s address book.”

“Does your family record things in the family Bible?”

“I’ll get that also.”

Phryne’s preliminary visit to the office that held the records of De Facto adoptions had not yielded any results. The boring government building had held many boring government officials, and a few hard-working, organized young ladies who helped her find bound volumes of very dusty records that did not mention any of the family names from Mrs. Sanderson’s enormous address book. _So, no properly done legal adoptions. That just leaves the other kind._

On the other hand, she was a short tram ride away from the bungalow of a very close friend. _Jack will cheer me up._

The house was lit, and as she approached the front door, she could hear the piano playing, and an unfamiliar male voice singing. 

“...But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you‘d very much better be waking;

For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich – 

Which is something between a large bathing machine and a very small second-class carriage – “

There was a small argument between _You aren’t expected or invited, Phryne_ , and _Who is singing Iolanthe in Jack’s house?_

She tried the front door, and it swung open.

As she expected, Jack was at the piano. The singer had the sartorial affectations of an artist’s tweedy style. Phryne was somewhat critical. He wouldn’t have passed muster in Paris. Paris Bohemians would have laughed at the lad’s beard, although they would have envied his lovely brown curly hair.

“...But the darkness has passed, and it‘s daylight at last, and the night has been long – ditto ditto my song – and thank goodness they‘re both of them over!” 

concluded the singer, and the last few chords died away as she peeled off her gloves to applaud. He had a very pleasant voice, and had done a very credible job.

The two of them turned to face her, one startled, the other with a smirk.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to provide an audience, Robinson.” _Oh, my, he is young._

“I didn’t plan it myself.” Jack slid off the piano bench and rose to greet her. “Miss Fisher, may I present Dizzy Ryan. He’s trying to make a place for himself in musical theater.” His eyes rolled, and he pivoted back. “Dizzy, this is Miss Phryne Fisher. She is only occasionally a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan.”

“I’m charmed, Miss Fisher.” He shook her hand quite properly, except for the puzzled glance back to Jack. “Robinson is helping me rehearse. He has been enormously patient.”

“Your practice seems to have paid off, Dizzy. That was very well done!” She glanced around the room. Something was slightly off here. It would come to her in a minute. “Are you strictly a singer, or do you want to break into acting?” Jack faded back against the mantle, and did his best to blend in with the woodwork.

“Well, don’t mention it in front of my father, but drama appeals to me more than business.” The young man’s teeth were beautiful and even, and he had chosen a golden-hued silk cravat to emphasize the blond streak at his left temple. Phryne wondered if that were an affectation as well.

“Everyone needs to find his or her own way,” agreed Phryne. 

“Not everyone is comfortable with a dull routine.” The Dizzy fellow eyed Jack, and mirrored his lean at the opposite end of the fireplace.

 

Jack raised an eyebrow, and Dizzy raised his. Phryne found herself smirking. Jack’s carriage and restrained demeanor did not suit the tweed coat, cravat and curling hair of the younger man.

Jack crossed his arms, which was immediately copied by the younger man.

“Dizzy, you arse. It's not funny anymore!” Jack declared, with a hint of a laugh.

“Yes it is, Jack! He's quite good at this.” Phryne clapped again.

Dizzy looked back and forth between the two of them, and must have added things up in his head. 

“Well, I must be going. Thanks for the help, Robinson.” He patted Jack’s shoulder, on his way to face Phryne. “I’m going to knock ‘em dead tomorrow!” 

The young man was oblivious to Jack’s frown as he raised Phryne’s hand to his lips. “Miss Fisher, I look forward to making your acquaintance.”

Jack followed him to the front door, and Phryne had a moment to look around. Where were the pictures of Jack in uniform? There were a few books missing from the shelves as well.

The policeman returned. 

“Does this young man know you are police officer?” demanded Phryne.

“I’m afraid he’s decided that I am an accountant, or legal clerk or something. I’ve been quite careful not to let him know that he’s wrong.” Jack’s brief smirk lit up his face.

“Why?”

“That is not at all important.” He closed the distance between the two of them, and rested his hands on her hips. “What is important is why you are here. Can I get you a drink? Food? Something else?”


	3. Rosie researches

Rosie wondered if coming along as Miss Fisher’s “assistant” was a good idea. She was unfamiliar with the government offices they were going to visit, and would require constant supervision. On the other hand, if she stayed home, Rosie had a sneaking suspicion that she would either fret or drink, possibly both.

According to the directory which was posted next to the stairway, “Births, Marriages and Deaths Archive” was somewhere below ground level, down some scuffed stairs. 

Phryne paused before opening the door out of the stairwell and turned to face Rosie “This is going to be tedious, but we are going to need to be quite diligent.”

Rosie nodded. 

“We know a birthday, and we have a list of family names and cities.” Phryne waved the little notebook. “If we are lucky, we will find a girl with the correct birthday, in one of the families. It isn’t how adoption is supposed to work, but if your father were intending to protect you, it would keep you completely out of the records.”

“That would be Father. If it happened, there must be paperwork.” _If there is no paperwork, it didn’t happen?_

“Don’t get your hopes up,” continued Phryne. “No matter what we find, however likely it looks, we will have to confirm through other means.”

“I understand,” Rosie replied with an attempt at calm. She looked down, realized that she was crumpling her gloves into a tight knot. She dropped them into her purse and hoped Phryne hadn’t noticed her fidgeting.

Rosie trailed after Phyne, who was at her most charming with the two clerks who seemed to be in charge of this forest of bookshelves. The young man showed them where the bound volumes of Births Marriages and Deaths records were found, and brought out a stack of several and found them an empty desk to spread out their papers on. 

Two hours later, Rosie had found an assortment of young cousins that she remembered, two young cousins who died of the ‘flu’ in 1918, and several distant cousins that she had never met or even heard of.

They put their heads together over the notes. 

“We aren’t going to need any further investigation of the children you have met. Those twins, won’t be right, and the birthday isn’t correct either.” Phryne made scribbled notes next to the names.. “Whoever ‘Benjamin Ryan’ is, he has the right birthday, but he’s not a girl.”

“What now?” asked Rosie. “We checked six months on either side of the day.”

“I think we’ve done as much as we can here. This place has all the records for Victoria.”

“Do you think she could be in some other province?” Rosie imagined one child, lost somewhere in the whole of Australia.

“Your mother’s address book has some of her cousins in Sydney, and I wouldn’t be surprised if your father knows a lot of people in Adelaide as well.” Phryne capped her pen.

Rosie felt her heart sink. “This was all a waste of time.” _Eloise Ryan delivered a baby on the very same day. Eloise’s baby was lucky, and wanted, and where was her baby girl, who wasn’t?_

“This is just the beginning,” whispered Phryne, as she gathered their notes. “I have some phone calls to make, and we will see what happens next.”

Phryne waved cheerfully at the clerks, hooked her hand under Rosie’s arm, and steered the two of them back up the stairs into the sunlight.


	4. Phryne interviews a troublesome source

The two of them were sitting at an outdoor table, watching the Melbourne pedestrians and enjoying a somewhat hurried lunch. Phryne knew that sometime soon, the clock in Jack’s head would go off, he would offer to pay, she would make some excuse about ordering desert and he would head back to City South at the highest speed consistent with dignity.

“How do you know that lad Dizzy?” she asked, trying to stay casual.

Jack eyed her cautiously. 

“A cousin asked me to check up on him.” Jack shrugged and looked away. “Why do you need to know?” 

_That makes no sense, Jack._

“You must know him pretty well if you will help him rehearse Gilbert and Sullivan.” She tried to say it with a casual smile, and listened to her voice rise just a little too much.

“Maybe I miss my theater days, Phryne.” Jack wasn’t smiling. 

“No matter.” It was her turn to shrug.

“Are you going to let me pay this time? I need to head back, I suspect I will have a line of constables waiting in the front for orders.” Jack still wasn’t smiling.

“I’m going to need a little more fortification before I start the next phase of my investigation.” Phryne smiled broadly.

“Thank you for lunch, then.” Jack tipped his hat to her, then stalked away.

_That could have gone better._

The hollow feeling in her stomach was more than just the usual suspicion. She was hiding things from Jack, and she was developing a strong suspicion that he was hiding something from her.

 

The sun was setting, and the Sanderson’s parlor was getting dim. Rosie stood up to switch on the lights.

“We’ve checked all the public records.” Phryne thumbed through her notebook. “Either your father found someone outside of Victoria, or I’m overlooking something. I have calls in to a couple of possible sources, but there isn’t much left, short of borrowing a police truncheon and applying it to your father.”

“He is so good at plotting,” sighed Rosie. “I suppose they wouldn’t actually let us break his fingers.”

“It’s generally frowned upon, even in prison.” Phryne momentarily considered how much money she would need to bribe a guard to look away for fifteen minutes.

The door opened and Mrs. Blunt shuffled in. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes, Miss. Also, Turner told me the prosecutor’s office returned two more boxes of files they are finished with.”

“Did he put them in the library with the rest?” Rosie didn’t look up from the glass she was pouring.

“Yes, Miss. It will be a week’s work to put it all back, but I suppose Mr. Sanderson won’t be complaining.”

“I think it will wait just a bit longer, Mrs. Blunt. I just can’t face that mess right now.” 

“What is that about?” inquired Phryne, as she flung her notebook down on the cushion next to her.

“The prosecutor’s office took everything from father’s library, but they have been sending back stuff a little at a time.” Rosie sighed loudly. “First, it was all the electrical and water bills. Then Mum’s correspondence with her school friends, after that it was a stack of newspaper clippings about Jack’s cases, I have even stopped checking.” 

“Do you mind if I have a look? Just to see if your father had some other contacts we missed.” Phryne kept her voice casual, but she wanted George’s address book so badly she could taste it.

“I’ll show you after dinner. You are absolutely welcome to look at anything.” Rosie stood up, slightly unsteady on her feet.

 

The stack of files on Phryne’s left grew. She pulled one more tattered folder down from the pile on the right. It flopped open, spilling envelopes and tattered sheets of yellowed paper. Her eyes were starting to itch. She blinked to try and clear them.

A couple of hand-written letters were signed A. Ryan. She couldn’t quite make it out… _this is not getting me anywhere_...A picture of a small child fell from the next envelope. The watercolor tints were for pink cheeks, blue eyes, and brown hair with a blonde streak. She turned it over. More spidery cursive spelled out “Benjamin Ryan, first birthday, 1914.”

She carefully closed the folder and tucked it gently into her purse. She’d give this a much closer look, after she got home and took a very long bath.


	5. Rosie and Mrs Blunt talk

Rosie followed the hallway to the kitchen. She could hear the Mrs. Blunt, and the laughter of the maid who helped her with the cleaning. Rosie vaguely recalled it was Win’s night out, once the dishes were done. 

She leaned against the wall next to the kitchen door. The two of them were discussing Win’s man, and and some sort of show they were going to see. Eventually, Mrs. Blunt wished the girl a good night, and Rosie heard the back door open and close.

_I need to have this conversation. I’m making plans that affect other people._

She swung the door open. The housekeeper was hanging shining pots on a rack next to the stove.

“Good evening, Mrs. Blunt. Thank you for the lovely dinner.” In some ways, the bare wood table and chairs in the kitchen seemed more comfortable than the fussy, dark wood in the front rooms.

“My pleasure, miss.” The housekeeper turned to face her. “Can I get you something? Tea?”

“Too late for tea. Would you mind making cocoa for both of us?” 

“You need feeding, miss. It will do you good. I’ve got some biscuits in the pantry.” Rosie filled in for herself the unsaid _Better this than another cocktail._

“We need to talk.” Rosie sat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs, and spread her hands on the pale, scrubbed wood.

“Is everything satisfactory, Miss?” The housekeeper had returned with three kinds of biscuits, fanned on one of the good china plates. Then she turned to the stove, and turned her attention to the coca.

“Inside the house, everything is perfect, Mrs. Blunt.” She brushed her fingers across a burn mark on the table. “You are managing the staff wonderfully. My problems are all outside.” _And in my head._

“Outside? You almost never go out anymore.” 

“I feel like I’m being watched, and judged. Everyone in Melbourne knows about Father and Sidney, and wonders about me. I want to be no one again.”

“You’ve been worrying yourself half to death, Miss.” Mrs. Blunt set the mug in front of her, and slid the plate of biscuits across the table. “A beach vacation would let you relax and get some of your color back.”

“I can’t leave yet. Miss Fisher is doing an investigation for me.”

“Surely the police can find out everything they need to know about Mr. Fletcher’s nasty business.”

“This is for me, and doesn’t involve Mr. Fletcher at all.” Rosie took one of the lemon biscuits from the plate. She took a bite and chewed carefully. “Once this is all over with, I am thinking that I want to either sell this house, or rent it out. You, and Win, and the groundskeeper will be out of a position.”

“You know, I’ve been here for a long time.” Mrs. Blunt cautiously sipped her cocoa. “I’m sure Win will have no trouble finding work again, and neither will Turner, if you write good references.”

“The best, of course. I hate to put you out of a place.”

“Miss, I came here before you got married. Maybe it’s time for a change.” 

“I know the feeling.” Rosie decided that she needed another biscuit.

“You and the Inspector should have made a house full of pretty children, Miss.” Mrs. Blunt picked up her mug of cocoa and blew across it. “I remember the first time you met, when Mr. Sanderson invited him to dinner.”

“It didn’t work out that way, I’m afraid.” Rosie chuckled. “You know, that wasn’t the first time we met.”

“It was! Your father introduced him to you, and he was so stiff and proper in that uniform with so many buttons.”

“Let me tell you the real story.” Rosie wondered if this were a good idea. “I was young and stupid once. I had a fondness for the theater crowd, and some delusions that I had some talent. Jack was playing the piano for a man that I fancied.”

“Was it romantic?”

“I was pursuing this man, Harris, and we had been drinking and dancing, and I talked him into a duet of some sort. So, he talked to his skinny young friend in a badly fitting suit. Harris’ friend sat down at the piano, spent a minute looking at the sheet music, then started playing. 

“Harris and I sang, then he finally got around to properly introducing Jack Robinson, and for the rest of the evening, Jack was watching me.”

“That is romantic.” Mrs. Blunt was listening with her chin on her hands.

“A couple of weeks later Harris dumped me, and I tried to make him jealous by getting close to Jack. Honestly, Jack was really sweet -- not a challenge at all.”

“Then?” The housekeeper sat up straighter.

“I’m afraid I got distracted by someone else who wasn’t anywhere near as nice, and shortly after that, my parents found out about the company I was keeping, and made me stop.” _Well, that and being pregnant._

Rosie drank the rest of her cocoa, and decided that it really wouldn’t be a good time for something harder. Besides, she was in the middle of the story, and the scotch was in the parlor.

“After that, my parents went to some trouble to introduce me to a lot of eligible young policemen. One night, Father brought in another one, and it was Jack.”

“I was desperately afraid he was going to tell on me, about Harris, and those unchaperoned parties. Instead, he was perfectly polite, as if he was meeting me for the first time… until Mum went to check on something in the kitchen, and Father had his back turned. Then Constable Robinson showed a sly smile and winked at me. ”

Mrs. Blunt was clearly fascinated. 

“Jack was so serious, and he was looking for a wife, and wanted to start a family.” Rosie closed her eyes for a moment. “It seemed like we had both grown up.”


	6. A phone call

The painted birds looked down on Phryne, from the screen that blocked the draft swirling away from her bedroom window. The scent of her bath was relaxing, but it wasn’t enough.

There was a soft knock at the door. “Miss Fisher?” Mr. Butler’s voice was calm, as always. “Doctor MacMillian is on the phone for you. She was quite insistent.”

“Mac? Please tell her I’ll be right there. Give me just a moment.” Phryne used her toes to remove the stopper, stood up in the tub, and tried to towel off her hair before snatching up her robe and leaving a trail of wet footprints down the stairs to the telephone.

She slid across the black and white tile, and accepted the handset from Mr. Butler.

“Mac, what did you find?” demanded Phryne. The damp silk was clinging to her, and she draped the towel over her head to get her hand free.

“You are quite impatient about seventeen year old news, girl. No social pleasantries?” Mac’s voice was teasing.

“You would not have called if you didn’t find anything, Mac. Spill it!”

“Well, I talked to Dr. Selma, who delivered babies in Geelong, years ago. He was a right arse about patient privacy, but I managed to convince him that I was only interested in one particular baby, born to one particular young woman, on a particular day.” Mac’s short laugh came down the phone line. “I also promised him a bottle of scotch the next time we met.”

“Mac, you know I’m good for it.”

“He looked up his medical notes from 1913, and found a couple of lines about Rose Sanderson, 18 yrs old, primigravida, and a eight pound two ounce baby boy.”

“Boy?” 

“Male baby, and he checked on mother and baby the next day, who were both doing well.”

“It was a boy?”

“That’s what I said. I seem to recall that you owe me a drink also.”

“Thank you Mac. I have a feeling that I’m close to getting this sorted out. I’m not going to get any sleep now.”

“Well, I am going to go to bed. I have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Mac, and thanks!” Phryne hung up the phone, and stood barefoot and shivering on the tile floor. _Rosie has a son. We are looking for a boy. Every single conclusion I’ve made is wrong._

“I need another look at that file,” Phryne said to her empty front hallway. Her purse was on the hat stand, and it was the work of a moment to pull out the tired brown folder.

The kitchen was quiet and empty. She turned on the light, and sat at the spotless table, placing the file in the center. There was no label on it, and it was surprisingly free of dust.

She sorted the letters by date. The earliest, in December of 1912, was Mr. Ryan expressing sympathy for the “awkward situation”, and offering to “make a home for the child.” It was addressed to Mrs. Sanderson. The second was also vague, but thanked George Sanderson for the information on “Miss Sanderson’s travel arrangements.” A ladylike hand on pink paper, followed in February of 1913, expressing gratitude to the Sanderson family, promising to care for the boy, and wishes for” a speedy recovery for Miss Rosie.” The pink letter was signed “Eloise.”

The last envelope was addressed to Mrs. Sanderson. There was a terse description of a party to celebrate the first birthday of “Benji”, a vague expression of gratitude, and the signature of Eloise. The very small boy with the brown curls looked out of the photograph at her. The back of the photo still said “Benjamin Ryan, First birthday, 1914.” Phryne decided that it was Eloise Ryan’s handwriting.

The last item in the folder was a slip of cheap grey paper -- a receipt, in fact. Phryne frowned. It seemed clean and new compared to everything else.

It was a printed form with “Walker Jewelry and Timepieces”, and a Melbourne address. The hand written particulars described a “Ladie’s enamel bangle with birds and flowers”, sold on December second of 1929, to “J. Robinson.”

Phryne felt gears slipping in her head. _Jack’s Christmas present...Chinese enamel, red flowers and tiny blue birds. He smiled while I unwrapped it, and insisted on putting it on my wrist._

_How does this belong in this file, with letters from 1914 about a toddler?_

_The file was in George’s things._

_The police seized George's papers, and they have been combing them for evidence._

_Jack is a policeman._

Phryne shivered, and felt the pieces of evidence line up. She shook herself, and went back upstairs to get dressed. That lovely bracelet was on the top of her jewelry box.

Phryne nodded to the constable behind the desk. “Is Inspector Robinson in?”

“Is he expecting you, Miss Fisher?” She remembered he was Constable Hopman, and he made Hugh look old and wise.

“No, but it is urgent. I won’t be long.” She did not wait to see if he waved her in or not.

She burst through the the office door before she realized that she really ought to knock.

Jack looked up from the swirl of papers on his desk. “Miss Fisher.”

“Would you lie to me, Jack?” 

“Under the wrong circumstances. Why do you ask?” His face was a blank. Phryne knew that was a deliberate choice. 

Images spun through Phryne’s brain. The box with the “released” markings from the prosecutor’s office, held the file with the letters about a baby, about the tiny child who looked vaguely familiar. The receipt with the December date was somehow off Jack’s desk. Somehow. _Did the file cross Jack’s desk at City South?_

She glanced at the mess on his desk. How hard would it be for a small slip of paper to get misplaced? “Can we use the interview room for a few minutes?” 

“Is this in regards to a case?” He frowned at her.

“One of mine.” She didn’t usually feel this anxious about talking to Jack.

Jack nodded, and followed her down the hall.

He opened the door for her, and hit the light switch. The yellow glow of the overhead bulb was setting her nerves on edge. 

“Sit,” ordered Phryne, and pulled the folder out of her bag. She took her usual chair, close to the door, and pointed out the chair on the far side to Jack

He seemed surprised to be positioned as the suspect in this drama, but followed her directions.

“Have you seen this before?” She placed the file in the center of the table.

Jack raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. “I see a lot of those, Miss Fisher. Can you give me a hint?”

She laid out the letters in a row. Hand written correspondence from Mr. and Mrs. Ryan, to the Sandersons, first mentioning an expected birth, then a planned meeting, then the health of a baby, and a small child, and the photograph of tiny Benjamin Ryan.

“Have you seen any of this before?” She clutched the folder tightly, keeping back the one slip of paper.

“Why would anyone show that to me? That’s someone’s personal correspondence, and has no bearing on any police matter.” His expression was a mask of boredom and indifference.

She took out the receipt. “Let me ask a different question.” The bracelet in question weighed heavily on her wrist.

She pushed the slip of paper across the table, the proof that the file had been on Jack’s desk, however briefly. 

His eyes flicked across it as he read, then up to meet her gaze. His expression said “caught.”

“Would you lie to me to protect Rosie?” Phryne’s heart hovered, out of place. 

“Yes.” Now he was looking at the table.

“Please believe me, Jack. You don’t need to protect Rosie from me. I’m on her side.”

“How did you get this?” He waved at the letters, and wouldn’t meet her eye.

“I have a client who wants to know what happened to one of George Sanderson’s grandchildren.”

Jack looked up at her, brow furrowed. “That’s not your usual sort of case. “

“I wouldn’t take it from just anyone.” _Please. Jack, trust me on this._

Jack looked down at his hands, the receipt, the letters, and the empty file folder.

“What do you need to know?” His voice was quiet, strained.

“What is Dizzy’s given name?”

“Benjamin Ryan.” 

_Benjamin Ryan, with the right birthday. With his parent’s address in Rosie’s mother’s book._

“How did you find out?” asked Phryne, as calmly as she could with her heart hammering in her ears.

“I’ve been kept out of the Sanderson investigation. There was some concern that I was either too close to the defendant, or that I was fabricating it all to get revenge on ex-family.” Jack closed his eyes for a moment. “I was just as happy not be sorting through the contents of George’s study.”

“Go on.”

“So, Sergeant Crossley, from vice, stops by my office one day,” Jack looked pained. “He showed me that stuff, and asked me if I had known about Rosie’s illegitimate baby, and was that why I divorced her?”

“Oh, Jack.” Phryne couldn’t get her voice to rise above a whisper.

“I took a close look at the paperwork, while I tried to sort it out for myself. I suggested to Crossley that this had nothing to do with the case, and was personal correspondence that should be returned to the family. Also that I had no idea, and I didn’t want to ever hear about it again.”

“Go on.” 

“I asked around a little, and found out that young Mr. Ryan was slumming around theater circles in Melbourne.”

“You were curious.” 

“Yes.” Jack looked up at her. “I wanted to meet Rosie’s child. I guess just to torture myself a little bit about what I’d missed out on.”

“He seems to be quite a talented young man.”

“Well, I’m trying to minimize the trouble he gets in before University.” Jack spread his fingers wide, and pushed the receipt back to her side of the table.

“Good luck on that.” Phryne smiled. “You know, I think you got to my investigation first.. I had no idea that you had already found the missing child.” She brushed her fingertips across the back of his hand.

“Miss Fisher, I apologize for stealing your evidence.” He turned his palm up.

“Jack, you solved my case before I knew I had one.” She interlocked her fingers with his. 

“Say it again.” That was the smile she had been missing. 

“You were two steps ahead,” said Phryne, with a smile of her own. “Let’s figure out how to tell Rosie.”


	7. Phryne makes an introduction

Rosie could hear the piano, which she remembered from a previous visit, as she approached Miss Fisher’s lovely stucco house with the red-painted iron work.

An unfamiliar male voice came through as the door was opened for her. 

“And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing – “

Mr. Butler took her coat and hat. “Miss Fisher and her guests are in the parlor,” he mentioned, as he hung up her things.

“Thank you, I’ll just go in then.” 

She quietly peered in. Miss Fisher glanced up and waved her in. Jack was at the piano, and a slender, somewhat Bohemian young man was singing, with his eyes on Phryne. 

“You‘re a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore, for your head‘s on the floor, and you‘ve needles and pins from your soles to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg‘s asleep,

...and you‘ve cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that‘s intense, and a general sense that you haven‘t been sleeping in clover.” 

“Rosie, I’m so glad you could make it to dinner!” Phryne got to her feet, but Rosie only saw Jack standing up from the piano, and the singer next to him. “I’d like you to meet Benjamin Ryan.”

Over desert, the topic of conversation turned to sports. 

“What do you think will happen at the Abbotsford/West game this weekend?” asked Phryne.

“Collingwood will beat whoever wins, so it doesn’t matter.” Dizzy waved his fork, trying to dismiss the subject.

“You are awfully certain about something that is over a week away,” Rosie observed.

"Abbotsford doesn't stand a chance," insisted Dizzy. "Their new coach is a complete unknown, and the first two matches haven't convinced me he knows how to win."

"Give him time." Jack looked up from dessert. "Most of the team is intact, and Evers has been coaching winning teams in Adelaide for years. You just wait."

Phryne pushed her chair back and came over to whisper in Rosie's ear. "Let's go talk in the kitchen."

She nodded. The men could talk footy for hours without missing them. 

“Winning against some Adelaide team isn’t like taking on Collingwood!” Dizzy was warming to his subject.

Phryne escorted her into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and waited while she sat.

“Rosie, that young man is your child.” Phryne sat on the end of the table.

“Him?” 

Phryne opened a folder, paged through its contents, but Rosie couldn't see them. “Doctor MacMillan talked to the doctor who delivered your baby. He consulted his notes, and also remembered a healthy boy baby.”

“A boy?” 

“You weren’t supposed to ever look for him, and if you did, you weren’t supposed to find him.” Phryne’s voice was soft. “Mr Alexander Ryan registered the birth as Benjamin Ryan, born to Alexander Ryan and Mrs. Eloise Sanderson Ryan.”

“The Ryans? My mother never liked them.”

“There was some correspondence between the Ryan family and your father over the next couple of years, some of which mentions Benjamin.” Phryne pushed the photograph of a toddler in a sunny garden across the table. 

Rosie let out a long breath. “This has been in Father’s files files? I’m an idiot.”

Phryne grabbed her hand. “You trusted him, Rosie. It isn’t your fault that he didn’t deserve it.”

“What do I do, Phryne?”

“I don’t know.” The detective frowned. “Dizzy has clearly been carefully brought up, and is now a healthy and happy young man with a choice between an education and his father’s business. I don’t think anyone has ever mentioned his somewhat unofficial adoption to him.”

“He doesn’t need me.”

Phryne’s eyes held hers for a moment. “The spot for ‘mother’ is already filled, Rosie. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have a spot for friend.”

_I found my child, and he is arguing about Australian rules football with my ex-husband. How did I get here? Is this some strange dream?_

"What do you want to do?" asked Phryne, her eyes soft and expression concerned.

"I don't know," said Rosie. She admitted to herself that Benjamin Ryan had exactly what she wanted for her child. He had loving parents, health, social standing, and every chance of a happy future. _The hurt is that none of that is with me. If I told him, would he even believe me?_ _If this got out, Benjamin Ryan would be one more subject for gossip and the papers. That would not be kind thing to do._

"Phryne, I can't tell him." Rosie sniffed and felt for her handkerchief. "...but I'm really, truly happy to know where he is now."

“Rosie, we found your child.” Phryne was leaning closer to her. “However, I do need to tell you -- Jack knows.”

“How?” 

“Policemen gossip, it’s an unfortunate fact of the business. One of the investigators who went through your father’s papers showed those to Jack.” Phryne gestured at the things on the table. “Jack has been trying to look out for him, because the child is yours.”


	8. Epilogue: Dizzy's New Scarf

The tram rattled along the tracks toward the football grounds. Typically for the Fall, wet air had blown in from the Pacific, and a damp mist and light rain seemed to hover in the air.

Phryne and young Mr. Ryan were arguing with one of the other passengers about the qualifications of West Melbourne's new coach, after last season's tragic murders and convictions. Rosie was thinking about the letter she'd had from Celia. The widow had remarried almost immediately, and their baby had come along while the newlyweds traveled in Europe. Vince Barlow was still playing for Abbotsford. Rosie hoped the scandal had blown over for the new Mrs.Celia Barlow.

Rosie held onto her seat as the tram screeched to a stop near the main gate. Footy fans were converging on the grounds. Some were showing the blue and blue of "West", and there was an entire family sporting black and white of the Collingwood magpies. Children shouted, adults chatted excitedly.

Rosie clutched the parcel tightly under her arm as young Mr. Ryan held his hand out to help her down the tram steps. Once she set foot on the curb, Miss Fisher followed her down.

“I’ll go get us tickets! You two wait here.” Phryne brushed an imaginary speck of dust from her white coat, and fluffed the fur collar. 

The crowd was assembling for the Collingwood - West Melbourne game. Rosie and the young man tried to stay out of the way of fans exiting the tram and swarming for the ticket counter.

“Have you decided who you are cheering for, Miss Sanderson?” 

“I’m trying to decide. I’ve been switching from one to another my whole life. Dizzy, this is for you.” She held out the paper wrapped parcel.

The young man accepted it, weighed it in one hand, and slid off the string. The black and white striped scarf unrolled from the package, and the fringe fluttered in the breeze.

“But why?” His puzzled frown reminded Rosie of her mother.

“I haven't knitted one in a long time, and it seemed like a nice thing to do. Did I pick the correct colors? You aren’t a secret Abbotsford supporter?” Rosie grinned.

“Never! They don’t have the fight in them like Collingwood.” The young man wrapped the scarf around his neck, pulled close against the light drizzle. “Thank you, Miss Sanderson. I bet you have saved me from a nasty cold, because I wouldn’t miss this game for anything!”

“There’s Phryne coming back. Let’s go find the seats.” Rosie’s eyes tracked her friend easily. Miss Fisher’s dark hair and beret, against the white fur collar of her coat stood out against the dull browns and greys of Melbourne Winter garb.

“I have the two loveliest ladies in the whole stadium,” gloated Dizzy, glancing from left to right.

“What will you say if you meet the perfect eligible young lady?” Phryne asked, as the three of them climbed the steps into the stands.

“That you are my aunts,” he admitted, embarrassed.

“That’s right, Aunt Phryne,” teased Rosie, as she sat.

“I’m alright with that, Aunt Rosie!” Phryne Fisher’s grin was infectious. 

Rosie laughed. _This really is alright._


End file.
